


when the smoke is in your eyes (you look so alive)

by distinguished_like



Category: John Lennon - Fandom, Paul McCartney - Fandom, The Beatles
Genre: (Minimal) Sexual Content, 1950s, 1960s, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Liverpool, M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 05:19:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12764001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distinguished_like/pseuds/distinguished_like
Summary: 'Don't you see me? I think I'm falling - I'm falling for you.'(Based on fallingforyou // the 1975)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> based loosely on 'fallingforyou' by the 1975, so definitely give it a listen if you can!! //
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YaRfJQeqf4g
> 
> unbeta'd - again, if anybody is willing to help me out with any future works, just let me know!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what time are you coming down?  
> we started losing light, i'll never make it right  
> if you don't want me round  
> i'm so excited for the night  
> all we need's my bike, and your enormous house  
> you said someday we might, when i'm closer to your height  
> 'till then we'll knock around  
> and see  
> if you're all i need

“What time do you call this?” Paul asked, wry and vehement as he clutched the handles of his bike protectively. The sharp smell of frost clung to the air, icy atoms dancing around him, his breath crystalising in front of him.

“I call it approximately 4:50 in the afternoon,” John replied, leaning against the doorframe, lacklustre, arrogant. The darkness of November almost encompassed them entirely, the unbecoming of summer long behind them, but the loss still feeling evident. They were lit, solely, by the warm yellows of Mendips’ kitchen leaking through the windows – streetlights littered evenly in the distance.

“You were supposed to be over at mine at four,” Paul said. “To write ‘nd that.” He still felt like a child when beside John, sometimes; they’d been what Paul would call friends for what felt like ages, now – realistically, it had only been about a year, give or take a few months.

It was all but relieving when John smacked his palm against is forehead, hissing at himself. Paul rolled his eyes, grinning a little. “Shit,” John said. “Sorry. Got held up. You know how it is. Traffic.” 

“Oh, aye,” Paul nodded. “Rush hour’s a killer, you know. It’s like the boss doesn’t know we’ve got families to come home to,” he played along, gladly – John hadn’t forgotten about him, not _really_ , and that was a comfort. Sometimes it felt like a vivid hallucination, that this was real, that they were a part of each other’s lives. Paul couldn’t remember a time before John; just the lucid sense of being alone. He wondered if John ever felt that, too.

John stepped outside, opposite Paul; he was dressed like he was _ready_ to leave, at least. His jeans, dark and blue and stained with black ink, were rolled up around his ankles, black socks sheltering them from the bitter chill, his hands now nestled comfortably into the pockets. He had a short black peacoat wrapped around his torso, his glasses framing his face like a portrait. Paul was still in his school uniform.

“Do you wanna’ go for a ride?” John proposed, shutting the back door behind him, not taking a moment to look at Paul.

He considered saying _no_ for a moment; he was eager to write, and his guitar felt heavy against his back. His cheeks, nose, ears, fingertips, all felt battered by the wind, his hair disheveled and lazy. But John had spoken the question expectantly, hopefully, like a _no_ would shatter him.

“Alright,” Paul agreed. He pulled his guitar off his shoulder and handed it, gently, to John. “Can I leave this?”

John consented, disappearing back into the house and leaving Paul outside. Paul slumped over his handlebars, smiling against his arm, head tilted, facing the front garden. He could see the sky bleeding luminescent pinks into dark blues, watched the clouds roll past, tumbling as they went – changing, hypnotising. Being with John excited him beyond what he had ever encountered before. There was a temperamental and intoxicating thrill about it that he couldn’t justify – wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to. Occasionally, he’d read through lyrics they had written together, focused less so on the words, more so on John’s scruffy calligraphy blending with his own, mesmerising and unkempt. He’d chuckle, indescribably fond, when seeing top corners of pages ripped apart with scribbles upon scribbles, John persisting that it must be _Lennon/McCartney,_ not, under _any_ circumstances, _McCartney/Lennon._ “ _Because I’m older,”_ he would assert. “ _It’s the way of the world, kid. Wise up.”_

When John reemerged, Paul lifted his head and prepared his bike for take-off. John sprinted around the back and appeared shortly after, his own vehicle in tow. They shuffled awkwardly out of the side-gate, rolling down the drive-way easily.

When Paul reached the pavement, John skidded to a halt beside him. They stopped, for a moment, John looking at Paul, a smirk against his lips, malicious and friendly all at once. Paul raised an eyebrow, questioning and rebellious.

John leaned in so that Paul could feel the disconcerting warmth of his breath against his face; watched the plumes of vapour intermingling prettily. “Where we goin’, Paulie?”

Paul shook his head, laughed. “I’m not sayin’ it,” he defended.

“Oh, _go on,_ ” he prodded Paul in the ribs, Paul’s bike tipping to the side a little – he lowered his foot to steady himself. “Humour me.”

“No,” Paul affirmed, prodding John right back. John pushed his hand away, and for whatever reason, when their fingers grazed against each other, rough and amalgamate, chills tickled their way up Paul’s arm and down his spine. He withdrew.

“I _said,”_ John started again. “Where we _goin’,_ Paulie?”

Paul laughed. “ _No,_ ” he retorted, pushing his limits. “It’s cheesy.”

John gasped, mock-offended, slamming his hand against his chest. “But… you _love_ it,” John said. He was sat casually, his feet firmly planted on the ground, leaning back against the wind. He snapped his gaze back to Paul. “Paul McCartney, say it now, or so help me _God_ , I’ll just have to knock ye’ the fuck out right now on this here pavement.”

Paul sighed. “It’s cold,” he said.

“Where are we _going?”_ John repeated.

Paul growled in frustration, leaning his forehead against his handlebars in defeat. “For fuck’s sake,” he grumbled.

“Paul…”

“To the toppity _fuckin_ ’ top, Johnny,” Paul snapped, lifting his head up abruptly and angrily.

John considered Paul for a long while. “Okay,” he said slowly, nodding. “Now, once more, with _feeling_.”

Paul glared at him. “You’ll be _feelin’_ somethin’ in a minute if you don’t pack it in.”

John laughed loudly, the sound earthy and pleasant, a little jarring. Paul felt his chest contract, then release, warmth pooling around his heart. He watched John laugh; watched his head loll back to reveal his neck, warm and thick, his Adam’s apple bobbing obnoxiously, like it was taunting him. Paul got a strong whiff of John’s aftershave, and inhaled it willingly.

“I submit,” he announced, raising his hands in surrender.

“ _Thank_ you,” Paul said pointedly, shaking his head. John pushed his bike off the curb, zig-zagged around the empty road lazily.

“Come ‘ead, then,” John called, and before Paul even had his feet on the peddles, John took off down the middle of the road – not fast, mind you; his hands were in his coat pockets, guiding the bike with his legs alone. Paul watched the auburn in John’s hair light up each time he navigated himself beneath the glows of the streetlights, gazed on as his shadow rolled away like the clouds.

“Hang on!” Paul shouted. He kicked off the floor smoothly, then rose up from the seat, tall and proud. The wind blew his hair off his face, and he welcomed it. He tilted his head up towards the sky, let his eyes fall closed for a brief second as he breathed it in, then opened them again when he began to catch up to the older boy.

John was still riding languidly. Paul sped past him, cutting him off, began to sway lazily in and out of John’s path.

“No one likes a show-off, Paul,” John heckled. Paul laughed, utterly euphoric.

He slowed, eventually, to ride next to John, parallel to each other. He plonked himself back down on his seat, considered copying John and placing an arm, cool and contained, into his blazer pocket – he didn’t, in the end. Too obvious.

“Seriously,” Paul said. “Where are we actually going?”

John shrugged. “Anywhere,” he replied. He looked at Paul, smiled softly. Sometimes when John smiled, you could almost see the cracks behind it – a threadbare smile. A veil. He considered whether or not he was the only person privy to this vulnerability, then shook the thought away. It didn’t _matter,_ anyway.

John sped up a little, so Paul fell in behind him. A car drove past, the headlights illuminating the two of them, each in turn. Paul had stopped wondering where John was whisking him off to, eventually; decided it was all fine, regardless. He was content enough to be there, in that moment; riding behind his best friend, cruising down familiar and homely streets, back-passages, cutting through the greenery of parks – scenery flashing by them in a cinematic ode to winter, the sky darkening quickly and gradually simultaneously.

It was about twenty minutes until they reached Sefton Park; Paul had strolled through it as a kid with his mum and dad, him and Mike running off, wreaking havoc. He watched John’s reflection travel by in the lake. It was pitch black, now, and the park was completely empty. They carried on around the body of water for a while; in the end, John pulled over next to a bench. Paul copied his actions, confused.

“Bit random,” he observed. As soon as he stopped moving, the cold overwhelmed him, and he had to take a minute to catch his breath. John sat on the bench, his legs wide apart, thighs bursting inside his tight jeans. He took out a cigarette, stuffed it between his lips. He wafted the packet at Paul, humming a noise that sounded a lot like, “ _Want one?”_

Paul nodded. “Yeah, okay,” he said. He’d never been much of a smoker before, knew his dad would have him for it. He’d nicked a toke of Jim’s pipe, once, when he was about 12, and near choked to death. He’d got enough backlash for that. _But Dad,_ he’d cried. _I could have_ died.

John pulled another cigarette out of the packet and handed it to Paul; Paul accepted, grateful, and sat next to John – it was a small bench, and if he angled himself just right, their thighs brushed. It frightened him, slightly, just how much he welcomed the contact, despite the very little warmth it actually offered him. John didn’t flinch away, so he eased down into his seat, pressing more weight against John, testing the waters. _This is fine_ , he decided. _It’s just because it’s cold_.

“Me mum and dad met here, you know,” John announced as he fished out his lighter from his other coat pocket. He lit his own cigarette, then passed it on to Paul.

Paul raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” He asked. He felt his mood deflate somewhat – it was one of _those_ nights, he realised. A reflective night.

“Mhm,” John responded, chuckling softly when Paul coughed and spluttered as he lit his ciggie, taking the first breath. Paul was thankful that he didn’t comment on it. “Mimi told me. He pelted his bowler hat into the lake ‘cause mum said she didn’t like it.”

“That was… nice of him,” Paul said. He took another drag; this time, he held it long enough to inhale it, felt the nicotine rush straight to his head. He exhaled, long and content.

John chuckled. “Yeah,” he said, taking a quick drag of his own cig, inhaling in a brisk hiss.

They sat in silence for a moment, staring into the darkness of the lake. Paul didn’t want to speak, suddenly, was more than happy to just sit there; as time passed, he felt John leaning into him, too, their shoulders pressing together. Paul smoked, calm and hazy; John smoked fast, forcing the plumes out between his teeth with each drag. Paul turned to look at him; his face, lit up by the orange embers, his eyes shining golden amidst the overbearing darkness.

John looked at him, frowning.

“Paul,” John said. Paul coughed in acknowledgement. “You don’t fancy me, do you?”

Paul’s eyes opened wide and he slid back suddenly, whacking his hip against the metallic armrest of the bench. Fear spilled into his guts like nothing he’d felt before, and he considered hopping back on his bike and heading straight home – but then, what did he have to run from? He _didn’t_ fancy John; not like, he’d realised pretty early on, the way he’d had something of a crush on Buddy Holly, or Elvis, or _both_ of the Everly Brothers. He’d taken a liking to Little Richard, as well, gazing at magazines like a bird would. But not _John_ – not _real_ , every day blokes. _Never_.

“Wh – no!” Paul answered, shaking his head. John just raised both of his eyebrows in Paul’s direction, grinning at him ridiculously, his chin jutting out sardonically beneath the curve of his nose. “I don’t!”

John nodded. “If yer’ sure,” he surrendered. Paul opened his mouth to speak, but when John looked at him again, he snapped it shut, letting out a satisfying _pop_ sound as his lips, numb with frost, collided. His hands remained firm against his thighs – he tugged at a loose piece of thread manically. He didn’t take his eyes off John, ensuring his eyebrows were still drawn in a defensive frown.

“John, seriously, I don’t,” Paul affirmed eventually. John just chuckled and took out a fresh cigarette – he didn’t offer Paul one, this time. “I like _girls_.”

“I know you do,” John nodded, looking down as he twiddled the cigarette uselessly. “Just, y’know. Some people like both. I was just checking.”

Paul wondered what had made John ask the question; what was it that Paul had done, in the last year, that led John to believe that Paul _fancied_ him?

Then, Paul considered the statement: _some people like both._

“Like who?” He investigated, unable to stop the question slipping out of his mouth. He willed himself to _not_ want John to say _him_ , but the thought was there regardless – festering a nook in his brain, uncomfortable and wrong.

John shrugged. “Can I have me light back?” He asked.

Paul nodded mechanically and thrust the lighter back into John’s open palm – he retracted his hand instantaneously, so fast he felt his elbow _click_ angrily.

When John stood up, Paul felt his chest hollow out in discomfort; this was unnatural, he thought, this tension – was nothing he’d ever experienced before, and yet John seemed completely sober, calculated, tranquil. An overbearing sense of loneliness trickled into his thoughts, again; like before he had met John, only _so much worse._

“You coming, then?” John interrupted, and Paul jumped at being addressed to.

“Coming…?”

“Back to mine,” John said, his voice droning – he didn’t say it, but the word _obviously_ clung to the end of the sentence anyway. “Songs don’t write ‘emselves, muppet.”

"O-oh,” Paul stuttered, rising from the bench with frost-bitten limbs, numb and painful. “Yeah. Coming.”

“In yer’ own time, Princess,” John joked, bowing with chivalry; his bike, his noble steed. Paul almost had it in him to laugh, but not quite – was still recovering from the shock of the last few minutes, the existentialism gnawing at his consciousness – the question ringing senselessly in his ears.

On the way back to Mendips, they didn’t speak – but Paul watched John ride off ahead of him, watched his legs move effortlessly, the muscles in his back tensing and relaxing as he went; the wind rustling his hair – the same wind, then, propelling backwards, hitting Paul square in the face, knocking the air out of him with every passing breath. 

 

 

Mimi wasn’t home by the time they got back; off to Woolton’s Conservative Club for a few hours. John and Paul were sat in the lounge on opposite arm-chairs, John perched on the one that Mimi usually sat in, nearest the window. He had his guitar balanced on his knee; Paul mirrored his position.

“What about that bit, though, there–” John started. Paul leaned over his guitar to look at the lyric sheet that mostly just consisted of scribbles. “ _It’s not like me, to pretend –_ yeah, that’s fine – but, then what?”

Paul shrugged. “True. We should probably have gotten the chorus down first,” he said. It was too easy, at that moment, to imagine that the whole encounter in the park had never happened, now that they were back where they belonged – writing and lounging as they wished, focused on craftsmanship and technique and familiar structure.

They ran from the start again. They had the whole song down, more or less, in terms of chords and rhythm: that much was fine. When it came to the chorus, Paul went ahead and sang what felt natural, after John had ceased his singing. “ _But I’ll get you, I’ll get you in the end,”_ he continued. John clicked his finger and leaned towards the coffee table to write it down.

“Ahh, nice one,” he crooned, his voice high-pitched in half-mockery. He mumbled to himself, “ _Yes, I will, I’ll get you in the end…”_

 _“Oh, yeah – Oh yeah,”_ Paul went on. John nodded appreciatively.

“Do you think that’ll do, then?”

John’s hair had lost some of its curl now; it was darting out in all kinds of directions, scruffy and textured. The peacoat had been removed to reveal a comfortable looking grey t-shirt, a thermal one that didn’t cling to his chest the way most of his tops did. His glasses were balanced on his nose – Paul loved those things, he did. He’d said it before now, but they were _so_ Buddy Holly.

“Paul–”

A realisation crept up on him with that thought; perhaps _that’s_ where all of this ‘ _fancying John_ ’ business had originated from. He looked like Buddy Holly, occasionally. That made sense, really – Paul always could appreciate a good-looking man, and John was undeniably one of them. It was rare, admittedly, that he ever allowed himself to get _quite_ this drawn in by them, though – his heart racing at the prospect of seeing him, looking him dead in the eye when singing songs about love; subtly interlocking their ankles when they lay next to each other at sleepovers; tender glances, lingering hands, breaths intermingling –

“Jesus _Christ_ , Macca,” John snapped. Paul blinked rapidly, dumbstruck.

“Wh – what? What did I do?”

John stood up, hands on his hips, abandoning his guitar on the floor. Paul gaped up at him. “Just kiss me and have done with it, will you?”

Paul stared at John for a long time, his eyelids half drawn in a confused squint. His lips parted, in shock, _of course_ , but never in anticipation – he took a deep breath and shook his head in disbelief. “You _what?”_

John stared at him, his lips pursed – he stared Paul down like he was proposing a challenge, a duel, but all Paul could do was blink at him; inutile, juvenile.

“To be honest, yer’ a bit young for my liking, and frankly, you know, you’re a _lad_ , but if it shuts you up for two minutes, then–”

“I never said anything,” Paul offered, completely futile.

John arched an eyebrow. “You were thinking,” he argued. “Loudly.”

“I…” _What?_ Paul thought. _I don’t want to kiss you?_

He considered kissing John in the ways he’d imagined kissing Buddy Holly and Elvis and all those other poor, unassuming musicians who had become victim to his innate, _private,_ desires; he imagined taking hold of John’s face, feeling the grain of his freshly shaved pores, his fingertips sheltered in the depths of his hair; he imagined taking off John’s glasses and bumping their noses together, tracing his tongue along John’s bottom lip; envisaged, for a moment, that John wanted to kiss Paul as well; his breath hitching, perhaps, or a hand darting out to grip Paul’s hip, pull him close, all-consuming and alight.

Paul swallowed, ashamed. “We shouldn’t,” he said. He was exhausted of excuses, now – couldn’t put up a fight any longer, pretend like he could never imagine loving John Lennon, completely and unreservedly, because he even had to admit to _himself_ that his make-believe kisses with Elvis and the like had never been _that_ tender, that intimate; had never left him breathless the way that _that_ thought had done. He kicked himself, inwardly, for having never considered that option before, what kissing someone he knew, someone like John, would feel like.

“Then we don’t have to,” John shrugged, not a care in the world, seemingly. Paul, suddenly, had to fight the urge to protest. He looked down at the carpet, averting his gaze towards anything _but_ John. “Offer’s there if you decide you want it.”

Paul could feel John’s eyes on him for a prolonged instant, but he refused to react. In his peripheral vision, he watched John walk towards the door leading to the hallway.

“I’m goin’ for a smoke,” he announced. “Think of somethin’ good for that song, will you?”

He departed with ease, leaving Paul, abashed, in the armchair. He swallowed thickly and blinked profusely; with a sigh, he slumped back in his seat, glared at the ceiling like it withheld the answers he was searching so desperately for.

In the moments that followed, Paul kept returning to one question – _like who?_ If _some people like both,_ then who was John _talking_ about? Paul had certainly never met anybody who, openly or assumedly, liked both men and women, and _definitely_ never any one who liked the same sex exclusively. Before that night, Paul had never really considered that he might want to kiss John Lennon; before that moment, he had never really considered that John Lennon may want to kiss him, too.

Rising from his seat, a phoenix out of ashes, he prepared himself; cleared his throat, rubbed a hand over his face, loosened the collar of his white school shirt. He didn’t have time to think about it, really – what he was about to _do,_ what the consequences could be, what John would _actually_ think about it all. For a little while, Paul elected to simply shut it all off; a switch in the back of his mind.

He stepped through the house in a dream-like haze, unable, _unwilling_ , to wake up. When he got to the kitchen, he saw the back of John’s head leaning coolly against the window. He tiptoed across the tiles, slid on his shoes.

He took a breath, and stepped outside. 

“Hi,” he muttered, looking at John.

John regarded him like a stranger, and for some reason, Paul was thankful for it. “Hello,” he replied.

“I’m going to kiss you, now,” Paul declared, feeling brave, all of a sudden; that conspicuous _thrill_ he felt every time he was with John, the adrenalin undoubtedly surging through his veins, urging him on. He took a step closer.

He watched John swallow, like, now, _he_ was nervous. He took a drag of his cigarette; Paul watched, awestruck, as the smoke filtered calmly between John’s lips, rose upwards, encircled his whole face – his eyes, restless, blinked the fumes out of the way. He coughed, once, shook himself down.

In the end, he turned to face Paul and nodded his head.

“Okay, then,” he said, finally. And Paul kissed him.

He didn’t know what John’s lips would feel like, really, but the sensation surprised him nonetheless; they were cold, firm; Paul realised, with some subdued form of glee, that John’s lips were puckered, and he was kissing Paul back.

Paul dared to part his lips a little; as expected, the rough grain of John’s pores grazed against Paul’s mouth, and if the feeling happened to elicit a groan, alien and guttural, well, Paul didn’t stop to notice. Instead, he raised his hands to John’s neck, traced his fingertips along the edges of his hairline. When John’s tongue tickled a gentle line along Paul’s, teasing him, Paul sighed into the kiss; he interlocked his fingers together, used his elbows to push John towards the wall; flattened his palm against the back of John’s head just in time to protect him from the inevitable collision with the window. John gasped into Paul’s mouth, and Paul chuckled softly, the sound shocking to his own ears.

“Sorry,” he whispered, pecking John’s lips between gasps.

He could feel John’s breath against his face, uneven and jagged. “Good?” He asked, and Paul hummed his approval. He felt high; this was nothing he had ever come near to experiencing before, and he tried not to wonder if that wasn’t the case for John. He hoped John felt something, the way Paul did – he felt like he was _falling_.

“So good,” Paul muttered against John’s lips. He felt John kiss the corner of his mouth. “The best,” he continued. He could have sworn he felt John smiling against him, but he couldn’t be sure. Eventually, he felt John’s hands between their chests, fiddling with something, but Paul didn’t stop to find out what was happening. He was kissing John Lennon, and John Lennon was kissing him back – the world seemed a million miles away.

Paul laughed when he felt John trying to wrap his coat, which he must have put back on when he left Paul in the lounge, around Paul’s waist. John laughed, too, and suddenly, they were giggling into each other’s mouths; Paul grazed his thumb along John’s cheekbone, breathing him in, committing it all to memory. “Good?” Paul asked, out of breath; for the first time, he opened his eyes; John’s were closed, unaware that Paul was watching him. His eyelashes lay against the top of his cheeks, which were red and flushed; his lips were still parted, his tongue resting languidly against his teeth _. He’s beautiful_ , Paul thought, then said it out loud when John took too long to speak.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. He rested their foreheads together, closed his eyes again.

He heard John clear his throat, and then, “You’re not so bad yourself.”

Paul laughed. “Daft lad,” he mumbled, softly. He pulled away, opened his eyes; this time, John’s were open, too.

“Mimi’ll be home soon,” he said, and Paul nodded.

“Yeah,” he acknowledged. He wasn’t sure he wanted it to be over, not even remotely; if John did, then that was fine, he’d decided; once was enough. He was already sure he’d remember it for the rest of his life; was already giddy to get home, lie down on his bed, think about it till he fell asleep – dream about it, if he was lucky.

“I’d better head off then,” Paul finished. John looked at him. Their eyes locked – John’s, warm and dark, Paul’s, open and inviting; he wanted to stay like this forever, huddled out in the freezing chill of November, lit up in the warm colours from John’s kitchen, wrapped in John’s coat, leaning up a little to reach John’s lips.

John nodded, though. “Yeah, you better had,” he confirmed.

Paul let his hands fall from John’s neck, missed the contact immediately; at the same time, John’s arms fell, slack, to his sides.

Paul gave one parting glance towards him before he opened the door again to head back inside; John was watching him walk away, too, to Paul’s surprise. Instead of speaking, he simply smiled; John smiled back.

Once he’d gathered his things – his guitar, his blazer – he came back out to see that John hadn’t moved. In the same instant, they heard footsteps coming up the path, the front door unlocking – Mimi.

Paul put his guitar over his back, guided his bike out. He stopped in front of John.

“Bye,” John said.

Paul grinned. He leaned in and pecked John once more on the lips – John blinked in confusion, but Paul was too euphoric to care. Kissing John was like pure ecstasy.

In a muted whisper, Paul asked, “Can we ever do that again?”

John laughed and looked to the floor – he dragged his foot along Paul’s, dirtying his school shoes a little. Paul looked down, then back up – still smiling. He couldn’t get it off his face.

When John gazed towards Paul again, the corners of his eyes were crinkled in a tight smile, holding back. “Maybe, when yer’ older,” John joked, and Paul sighed. John was barely even two years Paul’s elder.

“Okay… in the meantime, though?”

Again, John just smiled. To Paul’s amazement, John leaned in, pecked Paul once on the cheek – Paul felt warmth spread where John had touched, and he had to focus on not raising his hand to feel the area.

“We’ll see,” he promised. “Now off you pop. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

Paul started to roll his bike out. “Of course,” he said. “And don’t go standin’ me up this time, right?”

He heard John laugh from behind him when he was halfway out of the front garden. “I would never,” he replied. When Paul turned around to wave goodbye, the backdoor had shut, and John was nowhere to be seen.

The whole ride home, Paul kept having to take intervals to _breathe;_ to consider what all of this _meant,_ to come to terms with the colossal realization that he’d just snogged John Lennon, his best friend, in his back garden, and while he should have been feeling some sort of regret, fear, _something_ that would knock some sense into him, all he could think of was the taste of his lips and the feeling of their smiles pressed against each other; he could feel a weight laden on his heart, dragging it down, and he was falling with it; willingly, unreservedly _, falling._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i'm caught on your coat again  
> you said "oh no it's fine"  
> i read between the lines, and touched your leg again  
> i'll take you one day at a time  
> soon you will be mine, oh, but i want you now  
> when the smoke is in your eyes, you look so alive  
> d'you fancy sittin' down, with me, maybe?  
> 'cause you're all i need

John had his coat collar turned up against the wind; he could feel Mal pushing him along the pavement, hurrying the four of them into the hotel. There were barely any fans about, really, nothing compared to back home – still, John was looking forward to getting inside, winding down, having a fag and a G&T or two. The crescendo of endless shouts and the hissing of the wind were interchangeable, for a moment, so John breathed, waved a hand in their direction amiably, watched them crumble under it.

“Eeyar, John, would you look at that over there?”

John spun to the sound of George’s voice, broad and juvenile. He was pointing to the other side of the road where a gaggle of girls held a sign that must have weighed twice their body weight, written in bold black ink, citing, “ ** _WE LUV U JOHN,_** ” and beneath it, smaller, “ _Nous aimons John_!”

John laughed, shaking his head. “They’re fuckin’ bobbins,” he commented, and George chuckled dryly. He was waving like a mad man, shaking both of his hands manically in all directions. John blew the girls across the road a kiss, laughed as the screaming left an almost pleasant ringing in his ears. He felt George tapping him on the shoulder relentlessly, so he spun to see what was going on; he heard Mal sigh from beside him, and he had to suppress a laugh.

Paul was leaning over the fence at the entrance to the hotel, his coat flapping about happily – Neil could be seen trying to drag him away in the distance. Paul was grinning, his cheeks puffing out and blushing happily; his eyes were wrinkled around the edges, his eyebrows raised high behind his neat fringe of hair. John listened in.

“Merci, merci! Merci beaucoup!” Paul shouted. The girls – _Paul_ girls, indisputably – lost their minds. John watched Paul laugh, basking in the limelight. He started waving with his free hand, Neil now having secured a tight grip on the other one. “Uh… Uh, bonne nuit! Bonne nuit!” He chanted, finally, before being detained and taken through to the hotel’s reception.

John laughed to himself, shaking his head. As he walked past the girls that Paul had been _flirting_ with, frankly, John heckled, “ _Auf Wiedersehen_ ,” watched as some laughed, and others frowned in confusion – his desired reaction, certainly.

Bare trees and glaring street lights, the rising intonations of buildings all around them, were the canvas within which they were framed; Paris was cold – not as cold as Liverpool, mind you, but not exactly Barcelona, either. John exhaled slowly, watched his own breath dance in front of him; he turned, one last time, to take in his surroundings. If he needed a cosmic sign that they had _made it,_ once and for all, then perhaps this was it – a load of Parisians screaming out for them – more boys than girls, but plenty of noise to go around all the same. John smiled, waved one last time, and was then tumultuously pushed through the door by Mal.

“Jesus, Mal, take it easy, will you?” John criticised, rubbing his shoulder which, truthfully, didn’t hurt at all. “You’re damaging the goods, here.”

Mal just laughed. “Hurry yer’ arse up then,” he said. “Brian wants a word with you.”

John rolled his eyes, stomping his feet childishly. “But _mam,_ I don’t _want_ to have a word with Brian – let us off, yeah?”

Mal shook his head. John followed him towards the elevator that the other boys had already ascended. “By the sounds of it, you’ll want to be around for this one,” he said. John sighed, deflated – he wanted a breather, for once. They were all in need of a break already, and they were away to America in a few days. He needed _one night off._ Just _one._

As the lift rose to their floor, John whistled to himself. He’d promised Paul they’d get some writing done that night, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. Back home, it was easy – they were doing it in the Asher’s house, emulating _professionalism_ (or pretending to, anyway), aware that Paul’s _literal girlfriend_ could walk in and catch John watching Paul, all heart eyes and lazy smiles – eye contact, usually, was kept to a depressing minimum, but they were more productive for it, somehow.

They hadn’t kissed again since that day – only joked about it, mentioned it in passing, John reassuring girls that Paul had his eye on that _aye, he’s a great kisser, you know – he knocked the wind out of me good and proper,_ and they’d laugh, disbelieving, uncomfortable, and back the _fuck_ off. Paul would glare at him with disdain – but never for long, that old boyish grin inevitably revealing itself in an explosion of fondness, and John would be lying if he said he didn’t _live_ for those moments, now – didn’t feel anxious butterflies filling his gut when Paul looked at him for long enough, the way he used to when he was a kid. Sometimes John would watch Paul kiss Jane, or any other selection of women (of which, there were plenty), and try to remember what it felt like to be kissed by him, his lips full and warm – he had a bit of stubble now, and back then it had only really been peach fuzz (and very _little,_ at that). He wondered how different it would be, if Paul would still fit, quite snug, inside his slightly larger coat.  The noises he would make, lower, reverberating with sheer _bass._

When the doors to the lift opened, John shook his head, bringing himself back to reality. He was pretty sure he’d missed his chance. He couldn’t remember when Paul had stopped looking at him all hopeful, doe-eyed and innocent, but he definitely didn’t notice it anymore – it was all about _girls_ , all of a sudden: Dot, Jane and the hundreds in between.

Having _said_ that, this whole thing _had_ started out completely innocent on John’s part. He’d noticed Paul looking at him, is all, noticed how he’d push girls away if John was around, and it was just starting to get _distracting._

It was only when Paul actually kissed him, pushed him up against the wall, aggressive and tender all at once, that he _felt_ it – felt that it _could_ go somewhere, maybe. He’d kissed Shotton before, when they were kids, but it was nothing like that – there was no ferocity, no lust, no anything – just a rushed peck and a chorus of ‘ _ew’s_ from the both of them in unison.

Kissing your mates was totally normal, John thought. He used to peck Stuart all the time, when he was alive – still would, too. He reveled in grabbing George’s face and mushing a great big wet one against his protesting cheek, howls of laughter all around. When it had happened, he couldn’t figure out why it wouldn’t be the same with Paul – platonic, natural, nothing out of the ordinary. The issue really lay in the way John had felt his heart racing as it happened – wanted Paul to keep going, take him where he was, his mouth opening completely willingly. After it had all happened, he’d realised that his mind had already started to change on the matter, that he needn’t postpone until _Paul was older,_ because what a _ridiculous, cowardly_ excuse that was. Paul was twice the man John would ever be – always had been.

“Alright, John?” Mal asked, nudging him as they strolled through the hallways, a maze with no windows, no escape. John felt claustrophobic.

“Aye,” he lied, nodding his head, swallowing down a lump in his throat.

When they reached their room, the others were sat, relaxed, chatting amongst themselves. Paul’s blazer was open, his fitted shirt unbuttoned, revealing the top of his vest underneath – for whatever reason, his coat was still on, the collar raised around his neck. His legs, seemingly endless, were sprawled out along the double sofa. George and Ringo sat on the singular armchair by the window; Ringo in the seat, George on the arm. Neil was fixing himself a drink by the glass cupboards on the other side of the generously spacious lounge.

John shook off his coat, hung it on the rack behind the door.

“Where is he, then?”

Ringo shrugged. He had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. “I dunno’,” he answered.

Paul tutted. He was facing away from John, but John watched the back of his head shaking. “Unpunctual as ever,” Paul declared, his voice haughty. He sounded _like_ Brian. “We’ll have to replace him for this one, you know – _abysmal_ services.”

John laughed. “Can’t do that, Macca,” he argued. He sauntered over to the couch that was opposite Paul’s, sat down, placed his arm comfortably on the armrest. “We’ve got a holiday booked.”

Paul looked at him, glaring, pouting. John made a pointed effort to look away from his lips. “Ha ha,” Paul chided. He hated that, that John was off with Brian – knew it was a statement of _authority._ Brian had invited _him._ Not the others – not _Paul._

John rolled his eyes. “I’m having you on, Paulie,” John said, an attempt at appeasement. Paul pulled a face at him, blew a raspberry, mature as ever, then lay his head back against the armrest, looking at the ceiling.

George chuckled from across the room. “Hey, do you think one of us is getting the sack, then?”

Paul laughed like that was out of the question – which it was, really. “God, I hope it’s me,” he said. “Am sick of the sight of you’s.”

“You chat shite,” John exclaimed. “If you ever left you’d only have our posters all over the walls anyway, watchin’ us on the telly.”

Ringo nodded, humming with authority. “Mhm, you’ve got the fever, Paul. Once you get a whiff of us from the outside you’ll be pullin’ your hair out and pelting knickers at us with the rest of ‘em.”

“Say, Paul, who’s your favourite Beatle?” George asked, leaning on his fist like an interviewer. John heard Paul sigh, exasperated, but could see the grin on his face anyway.

“Hmm, well,” Paul started, his voice high-pitched, cracking at the edges with the strain. “I have to say, that Jim Lemons gives me a right good feeling. Oh, and Greg Harperson, hey? Those _fingers._ And the other one – what’s his name – oh, Pete Best! _He’s_ my favourite, oh, _marry me_ , Pete–!”

Ringo pelted a pillow at Paul, knocking the wind out of him. Paul just laughed and chucked it back, missing Ringo’s cigarette narrowly.

John shook his head. “We love you really, Stuart,” he said. Ringo laughed flatly.

Paul sang joyfully, “Pete forever, Ringo never–!”

“Careful, Paul,” John intervened. “Our George took a black eye defending our drummer’s honour, you know.”

George laughed. “Wish I bloody hadn’t,” he said. “He’s a right plonker.”

Ringo gasped loudly, pushed George off the armrest playfully – George managed to steady himself.

In the same instant, the door swung open and Brian marched into the room like it was a stage – his coat flew out behind him, a natural dramatist. He left a breeze behind him as he flew into the centre of the room.

“Boys, I have the most _marvelous_ news–”

“Ringo’s sacked!” George heckled. He received another whack to the arm from Ringo.

Brian looked at the two of them with some level of distaste. “No, not quite…” he answered. Ringo pulled a tongue in George’s direction. John waited patiently – it must be important, this, for Brian to barge in there with such evident glee.

“Look–” he whipped out a piece of paper from his coat pocket, unfolded it, shook it around their faces for emphasis. “You’re number one in America! I Want To Hold Your Hand is number one!”

There was a moment of silence between all of them that lasted lifetimes. The four of them looked at each other. Ringo at John, George at Paul; Paul at Ringo, George at John; finally, John and Paul looked at each other for an everlasting moment, both of their mouths a little bit slack. In the distance, as if in a different room to them, John heard a muffled version of what was taking place around him – George and Ringo had jumped up from the arm chair, roaring loudly – were hugging Brian, practically tearing him apart. Mal and Neil were patting each other’s shoulders fondly.

John and Paul were sat still, as if the slightest movement might break the spell – might snatch the news away from them as quick as it had arrived. _We did it,_ John thought, willing Paul to hear it. _Our song._ Our _song. We_ did it _._ Paul blinked, and John spotted the curves of a smile beginning to illuminate his features. It happened in slow motion – the smile, the sound of Paul’s laugh ringing in his ears. He watched Paul rise up off the sofa, limbs flailing in animation, strands of hair flying out, breaking the structure, as he sped over to the other three. He clasped his hands against Brian’s shoulders – got sucked into the pandemonium by George’s arm flying around the back of Paul’s neck, Ringo’s doing the same, the four of them clasped against each other like lifelines.

“John!” Paul shouted, and the world sped up, finally. “John, come _on_ – we’re fucking _number one_!”

John laughed, loud and elated, could barely feel himself move as he stormed over to them – he wrapped his arm securely around George and Ringo, his fingertips just about reaching Brian’s shoulder.

They broke apart, eventually – Ringo grabbed John in the tightest hug John thought he’d ever been enveloped in. George grabbed his shoulder, spun him around and out of Ringo’s grasp. John grinned manically at his younger friend, the sound of sheer elevation filling the whole apartment. He wrapped his arm around George’s waist, picked the scrawny bugger up off the floor like he weighed nothing. Usually, he’d have got a smack, but the guitarist just howled and patted John’s back, hard.

John put him back down pretty quick, spun to meet his next bandmate. Paul was stood in front of him, shaking his head in, presumably, disbelief. John gaped at him, lost.

“How–” he started.

“I know,” Paul said. “I don’t know.”

John laughed, ran a hand through his hair, scruffed it up.

“We…”

“Did it,” Paul continued. “I fucking _know,_ Johnny,” he laughed, giddy in all the right ways, practically bouncing on the spot. John watched him, licked his lips, still chuckling at the sight.

Paul sprung towards him at full velocity, wrapped his arms around his neck. John stumbled back and, in turn, wrapped his arms easily around Paul’s waist, clasping his arms together in the embrace. He could hear Paul giggling in his ear, and John took the opportunity to breathe him in; closed his eyes in solace, pressed his cheek against Paul’s neck, the loose ends of his hair tickling his nose.

He wondered how long they’d actually been stood there for, holding each other like that. It didn’t feel like long enough – not really, with the weight of all that was taking place around them, the significance of it.

Inevitably, Paul released his grip, and John sighed – he didn’t want to let go.

When Paul tried to pull away, he was yanked back towards John with abrupt force, and John let out a pathetic _yelp_ as their chests collided, near enough knocking them both over. Their faces were inches apart, then, breathing against one another. Paul was looking at him from beneath his eyelashes, lips puckered completely naturally, a gentle pink blush littered against his cheekbones. John swallowed, licked his lips, cleared his throat when Paul frowned.

“Erm,” John started, coughed again. “Me watch – it’s caught on yer’ coat,” he realised. He tugged his wrist away, felt a snag pulling him back in. Paul laughed, shaking his head. “Sorry,” John chuckled.

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” he reassured. Paul shrugged his coat off easily, held it in his hands as he took the loose thread between his fingers and snapped it off, freeing John. John shook his wrist; Paul looked at him again, licking his lips. “It’s fine,” he repeated, softer, grinning, his eyes gentle and inviting. John had to fight to ignore it, but he managed; he distracted himself with the image of George behind Paul, jumping over the settee, preparing to pounce onto Mal’s back.

When he did, John laughed, near hysterically. George’s long limbs flew around the room as Mal sprinted, jumping over furniture; suddenly, Paul flew over to Neil, abandoning his coat at John’s feet.

“Neil, give us a go!” He called, laughter an ever-present undertone in his dialect. He hopped onto the coffee table, Neil positioning himself in front of him.

Brian had removed himself from the chaos taking place before him, stood, a little disheveled, by the drinks cabinet. “Gin, anybody?” He called, shaking a crystal bottle in their direction. Consenting cries of drawn out ‘ _Yeaaaah_ ’s filled the room, and John smiled, swept up in it all.

And if he wondered, for the longest time, what that second _it’s fine_ was all about, then he let himself. It was _allowed,_ he decided, to feel like this, the way Paul had done once, too. John realised, in the same instant, that in his own conniving way, he had probably wanted to kiss Paul right from the start, and that this was now an ever-present feature of his character – he fell for Paul, really, the first time they wrote together, and for all the danger and suspicion surrounding it, look where it had got them; they were on _top of the fucking world,_ and if Paul didn’t see that, John would be surprised.

He decided, then, that Paul _had_ to remember the way it felt when they had kissed all those years ago. _So good,_ he had promised. _The best. You’re beautiful._ And if the way Paul looked at John when Brian had told them that _their song, their_ damn love song had gotten them to number one, wasn’t a distinct reflection on the way Paul used to gaze at John when they were just kids, knocking about aimlessly – well. All be damned.

 

 

It was later in the evening when Paul squeezed himself next to John on the sofa, between him and Ringo. They’d only had a few gin and tonics each, hardly enough to be drunk, but Paul had that familiar glow about him, his lips and cheeks red, his eyes a little bleary – was probably the intensity of it all, the exhilaration of the whole day – their whole _lives._

John laughed. “Alright?” He asked.

Paul nodded, then shook his head, then nodded again. “Yes,” he settled on, eventually. “Bit gobsmacked, you know.”

John nodded. “Me too,” he admitted. “Can hardly be surprised though, can we? We were right little fuckin’ prodigies back in the day – now we’re just the _masters._ ”

Paul laughed again, loud. They’d brought more people over to the apartment to celebrate – tour coordinators, security, merchandisers, technicians, people from endless teams and factions that John had never even heard of – Paul’s laugh got lost prettily to the sound of music flowing out of an old stereo, _their_ music. Brian had brought _Please Please Me_ along, like a good luck charm. Paul screeching about _seeing her standing there_ filled John’s ears, and he was grateful for it, if anything.

“We were always the masters,” Paul interjected. John laughed when Paul leaned in closer, his eyebrows dark and furrowed, his expression stern. “We wrote some top tunes back in the day as well, did we not? All of them were alright at best. I mean, _I’ll Get You_ for a _start_.”

John blinked, swallowed, remembered the day they wrote that. He nodded his head. “I know, _I know_ – ease off,” he chuckled, pushing his revelation to the side.

They both looked out towards the sea of people socialising before them, watched Neil encouraging George to take a drink of some abomination that he had mixed himself.

John tuned out, briefly; smoke clouded the whole room, a second ceiling of tobacco residue dancing amongst head-tops, flowing between the diamante chandeliers. He wondered whether Paul was deliberately coming off as flirtatious, pushing his limits, mentioning a song like that – it had meant nothing, really, was just an innocent circumstance surrounding their first kiss – their _only_ kiss. It had never put a rift between them before, and John did not want it to now – but that night, of all the nights, seemed important. Their song was _number one._ This was _it._

John noticed that Paul, at some point, had taken his blazer off and had it folded scruffily over his lap. The sleeves of his shirt had been rolled up above his elbows, his collar a little skewed.

Paul’s arm was pressed against John’s – uselessly, and frustratingly, because the temperatures in the apartment were reaching unbearable, what with the voices and the bodies and the smoke pooling around them. Perhaps it was getting to John’s head, he considered, then ignored the douse of logic before he could stop himself. He was going to take Paul _gradually,_ so as not to overwhelm him, as maybe he did the first time around – press his luck for a while, winning him over day after day, slowly and tumultuously.

He slid his hand off his own lap and into the very little space between his and Paul’s thighs, then waited in a moment of electricity for a reaction – none whatsoever came. He kept his vision straight as he could – the glasses had come off a while ago, now – looking out for anybody with wandering eyes.

He took a deep breath, and then, as if nothing had happened, he slid his hand beneath Paul’s blazer and onto the top of his thigh. He flinched when he heard Paul gasp, clenched his eyes shut in preparation for a slap, or something, but nothing came.

He kept his hand there for a while – nobody noticed, apparently. To the passerby, it looked as though John’s hand was on the sofa between the two of them, not resting comfortably on the thigh of his best friend.

Vera, one of the junior merchandisers, had wandered over and was talking to the two of them quite enthusiastically – rather, she was talking to Paul, less so to John – or to Ringo, for that matter.

Her blonde bob of hair, doused in lacquer beyond its limits, didn’t move an inch as she spoke animatedly about all of the Paul-centric merchandise they were releasing, and Paul nodded along, polite and calm. John could see the way Paul’s eyes could catch a girl off-guard, make her melt, whether that was his intention or not. It thrilled John beyond description to know that Paul _knew_ that John’s hand was on his thigh in that moment, and yet hadn’t uttered a word of protest. Not even a _glance._

John looked at Paul for a long time, and allowed a fiendish smirk to encompass his face.

As Vera posed a question at Paul, and Paul opening his mouth to speak, John slid his hand slowly further up Paul’s thigh, gripped the tender bit of skin _tight,_ careful not to move the blazer so that anyone would clock on.

Chills ran up John’s spine, his mouth watering as if by some sort of divine command, when Paul let out a loud and obnoxious cough to stifle the yelp that _very nearly_ escaped his lips.

John looked at Paul to see Paul looking back at him, eyes wide and calculating.

“Alright, Macca? Bit of a sore throat, have we?”

Paul blinked a few times. “Yeah…” he started. He looked confused – although, really, how _could he be?_ Something was processing behind Paul’s eyes, and John faltered for a second under the weight of it. Paul snapped his head back towards Vera, who was waiting patiently. “After the shows, y’know.” He gestured towards his throat vaguely with one hand.

The other, hidden beneath the fabric, had found its way towards John’s, the edges of their fingertips grazing against one another lazily.

“Oh, my gosh,” Vera called. John jumped a little, just remembering that she was even there. “You’re not getting ill, are you?”

John laughed, covered his mouth with his free hand.

“Oh, no, you know, should probably just rest it, is all,” Paul said. John looked over to see him grinning, eyes alight. “I’ll probably head to bed soon.”

Vera nodded. “Good call,” she agreed. “Well, I’ll see you around anyway. I hope you feel better – before America!”

Paul laughed after her.

As soon as the feeling of Paul’s hand against John’s was there, it was gone in an instant. John’s palm fell, deflated, towards the sofa as Paul stood up, taking his jacket with him.

John watched after him, his eyes clouded over. “Night, then,” he shouted, feeling like he’d _won._ Victorious.

Paul looked down at him, a glint in his eye that John hadn’t seen in years. “Night,” he called back, calm, before he sauntered off into the small crowd and out into the hallway.

 

 

It wasn’t until most of their guests had left that John finally made his way towards the room that he shared with Paul.

He opened the door, not knocking; Paul was sat on the single bed furthest from John, his guitar on his lap. The window was open, cold seeping into the room, that familiar smell of crisp wind surrounding them. Paul looked up towards John.

“Hi,” he said. His face was expressionless.

“Hello,” John replied, entering the room and shutting the door behind him. He walked slowly towards his own bed, by the wall, sat on the end of it.

“What happened to not standin’ me up, hey?”

John frowned. He looked towards the other man, lost in translation. “What?”

Paul laughed. “You said, when we were kids. You would never stand me up,” he stopped, looking at John. “You stood me up. We were supposed to write tonight.”

John stumbled over his words, then let out a grainy, single syllabled laugh. This wasn’t _gradual,_ like he had planned. He wanted a build-up. Wanted to save it, till it was right. “To be fair, Paul, that was a solid six years before I knew we were gonna' be number one in the states. Cut us some slack.”

Paul shook his head, looking at the neck of his guitar. “I’m havin’ you on, daft lad,” he said, and John was shocked by the tenderness it held.

“I know,” John nodded. He felt cautious, all of a sudden, like he had to trod carefully around Paul; didn’t want to wind him up too much, hadn’t considered that maybe this was getting out of hand for him, too.

John took off his blazer, chucked it on the bed behind him; kicked off his shoes then pushed them around the side. When he stood up to start getting ready for sleep, Paul spoke again, and John actually flinched.

“I thought you’d forgotten,” he said. John turned to see that he’d placed his guitar against the wall, was pulling a cigarette out of the packet on the bedside table.

John frowned, disgruntled. “You can’t have,” John said, on the defensive. “It’s not like I never mentioned it.”

Paul shrugged. “That’s… not what I mean,” he said. “I mean, about it ever happening again.”

John rubbed the back of his neck, inherently awkward. He didn’t reply, just started removing his tie, undoing his shirt.

He heard Paul laugh, looked up to lock eyes with him. He could see Paul’s collar bones jutting out beneath his shirt, his shoulders broad, strong-looking. Dark hairs ran down his arms, trickled onto his hands. “Who was it?”

John spluttered, again. “Who was what?”

“Who do you know who likes both?”

John considered his response for a moment. “It was theoretical,” he said. “People in the world do exist who like blokes ‘nd birds – I don’t _know_ any.”

“Right,” Paul nodded. A few breaths passed. “I do.”

John snapped his head up, away from his tie, looked at Paul with wide and startled eyes. “You do?”

Paul laughed at him, his mouth open, flummoxed. “I mean, yeah,” he said. “Bit obvious, wasn’t it?”

“No,” John answered, then backtracked. “I mean, a bit, with me, maybe, back then.”

“John,” Paul started. John could hear a tremor in Paul’s voice that he’d never really heard before – a hint of fear, or of anticipation, or both. He watched Paul light his cigarette, with ease; when they were younger, he used to splutter and cough with the first intake, every time, without fail. John had to teach him how to do it _properly,_ in the end, had enjoyed watching Paul’s lips wrap around the butts of cigarette after cigarette, determination in his eyes. The flame withdrew from Paul’s face; smoke lifted up around him, framing him, lighting up his eyes. “You don’t fancy me, do you?”

In the intensity of it, John found it in him to laugh – it was _cheeky,_ really, downright _rude_ of Paul to spring that on him, barely a couple of hours after John had even decided that _yes_ , he absolutely did fancy Paul McCartney, and _yes_ , he had been completely and irreverently infatuated with him since they were kids. Paul just looked at him, waiting; took another drag, exhaled slowly.

John watched him, then sighed. His arms fell to his sides. “The fuck do you think, you arrogant sod?”

Paul smiled from his seat. “Okay,” he relented, like he was content with that response. Grin still present, he kicked his legs out and lay down, one arm beneath his head; the other, flitting his cigarette through the air, bringing it to his lips, blowing plumes up and up and up and up.

John stared at him, considering what to say. The lighting in the hotel room was dim, nostalgic and yellowing; he could hear a bit of traffic from outside, could see some of the lights from the surrounding buildings, white and red, peering into the room through the thin, veil-like curtains. The smoke from Paul’s mouth filled the room and his eyes, ever-luminescent, greens and browns mixing together in some intricate galaxy of endless possibilities, stared out into nothingness. His smile was there, though – sweet and pure, content, the way he should look, and John could remember that smile forced against his own, laughter their soundtrack, alive, and euphoric, and _alive._

John walked over to the bed in long strides; watched himself with a certain degree of depersonalization as he placed one fist either side of Paul’s head, craning over him, watching.

Paul quirked an eyebrow, took the cigarette from his mouth and spun it, offering it to John.

He popped it between his lips. John inhaled, held it in, made an over-exaggerated attempt to blow it out towards the window instead of down into Paul’s face.

He heard Paul laugh from beneath him; his soul danced.

“I wanted to wait,” John announced. “I wanted to make you want me again, y’know, all natural like.”

Paul frowned at him, inhaling, again, the fire at the end of his cig burning bright between them.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

Paul waited for a long moment. He turned his face to the side, and John was almost worried he’d push him off; his heart was pounding in his chest. He could still hear their record pooling in from the living room, the sounds of winter coming to a close outside their window. He watched Paul stamp out his cigarette in the ashtray on the table, then turn back towards him, nodding.

“Do you wanna’… you know, talk, first, or something?”

John laughed, pressed his forehead against Paul’s like it was the most natural thing in the world, like they’d been doing it all this time. “If you insist,” John agreed, stepping away from Paul’s bed and sitting down on his own.

John had barely found his way to his bed before Paul had risen, his hands pressing against John’s shoulders; he was now sat, looking up at Paul; felt small, but felt like this was all he’d ever need – the world a separate entity, somehow.

“Nevermind,” Paul said, shaking his head manically. “Quickly – I – I’ve loved you since… forever,” he laughed, and John felt his heart pounding, elated, against his ribcage. He felt like he was falling through the floor.

John raised a hand to Paul’s face – grazed his way down his jawline with his fingertip, watched Paul’s eyes dance over him like he was sacred. “It’s fine,” John shook his head. “I know.”

“Okay,” Paul nodded. He laughed again, seemingly nervous – to his own surprise, John had never felt more tranquil. “Hey, Johnny – I’m, um, I’m older – now.”

John laughed, nodded his head. “That you are,” he agreed. He stood up, lifted Paul’s hands off his shoulders and let them fell into the space between them. They were the same height, eyes level; John placed his hands, secure, around the back of Paul’s neck, and Paul’s fell naturally towards John waist, holding him in place.

“We don’t have to,” Paul said, gaze flitting over John’s features. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“Do _you_ want to?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions, John,” Paul said, laughing against John’s face.

John smiled. He raised one hand into Paul’s hair, running his fingers through the short locks easily, pulling Paul towards him.

At some point, their noses brushed against each other, and John could hear Paul breathing loudly in between them. John closed his eyes, looking a little pained, suddenly.

“You’re the most important man in the world,” he whispered, his voice strained like he was crying, and then he kissed him.

He pressed their lips together firmly, didn’t move or open his mouth for a while, reveling in the sensation of Paul’s mouth against his after all this time – everything that had happened in between a distant and surreal memory. Paul breathed in harshly through his nose, raised one hand up towards John’s face, brought him in closer, if it were at all possible. John tilted his head, leaning into the warmth of Paul’s palm; finally, he opened his mouth a little, Paul’s lips, puckered expertly, falling in between John’s, slipping together like that’s where they were always supposed to be. John’s head was spinning, his breath disjointed and fanatical; the pace with which they were moving increased, and the potency with which Paul was moving his mouth against John’s, flicking his tongue, slamming their lips together then taking them away, then bringing them back with vigour and lust and everything John had ever dreamed of, everything he had ever wanted, not even _known_ that he wanted, was encompassing him and lifting him up like there, in that moment, they were divinity itself.

At some point, Paul’s leg had found its way between John’s, thigh rubbing softly against John’s crotch, and John hissed at the contact, nearly pulled away.

“Okay?” Paul asked, breathless. John nodded.

“More than,” he answered, swallowed Paul’s laugh like it was medicine. Paul’s grip around his waist tightened, pulled him close; he felt Paul grind their crotches against one another, slowly, tantalising, tentative. John let his head roll back for a moment, groaning.

Paul was essentially holding him up, stopping him from colliding with the bed behind him. John could envisage the smirk on his face, unwinding John the way he was, grinding softly against him over and over. Paul lowered his head, kissed the skin around John’s neck, beneath his earlobe, left a trail of red as he nipped at it.

“I’ve wanted to do that since I was a kid,” Paul said, his voice low and grainy. “Used to watch you all the time,” he continued, stopping between words to kiss John’s neck, his jawline, his lips, then back down again. “So beautiful,” he whispered. “Fucking breathtaking.”

John sighed, shaking his head; he opened his eyes to look towards the ceiling. “You’re off your head,” he said. “Absolutely mad.”

He heard Paul laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “Are you complaining?”

John stood himself upright, brought his and Paul’s lips together again; Paul stumbled and fell onto his own bed, John stood between his legs, holding his face in his hands. “No,” he affirmed. “Absolutely fucking not.” Paul was looking up at him, his eyes hazed over like he was steaming. In a moment of courage, John lifted his knees onto the bed, either side of Paul, straddling him, pressed their lips together.

He felt Paul’s hands gravitate towards his hips, holding him in place; his shirt had untucked itself in the movement of it all, and Paul’s thumbs ran soft circles into his skin.

John sunk down against Paul’s crotch, felt Paul’s dick, hardening, against his thigh.

Paul hissed. “Fuck, John,” he gasped, shaking his head.

“We can stop,” John reassured, kissing Paul’s forehead. He didn’t want to stop, not really, but he’d be more than happy to just lie with Paul, or talk with him, or sleep next to him, if he was lucky. “Whenever you say so.”

Paul sighed, rolled his eyes. “I’m not that fragile,” he said, argumentative, as was his nature. This time, it was Paul who raised his hips towards John, rolled them so that John could feel every inch of Paul thrust against him.

John gasped, then chuckled. “You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “But by all means, continue provin’ your point, love.”

Paul laughed from beneath him, wrapped his arms around John’s back, flung him flat onto the bed beneath them; in an instant, Paul was nestled between John’s legs, hovering above him, smirking down at him, disheveled and scruffy, his smile crooked and John, in a swell of _feeling_ , wondered whether home is a place, or a person.

Paul was breathless, still, and John shook his head. “This ain’t real,” he mused aloud.

Paul just frowned at him, like he was insane. “ _O_ –kay then,” he laughed, awkward, and John just watched him. “I mean, I hope it is. I dunno about you.”

John leaned up, caught Paul’s lips in his own, gentle and soft and all that was _good_ in the world in those few seconds were Paul’s lips, Paul’s eyes, Paul’s very existence intermingling with John’s, an array of light and colour between them.

“I could kiss you for hours,” John whispered, the sound of his own voice startling to his ears.

“Well,” Paul started. “What do you reckon, y’know – we make this a regular thing?”

John blinked up at him, disbelief blurring his senses; he combed a hand through Paul’s fringe, moved the hair out of the way of his face. “I reckon I love you, you know.”

Paul smiled. “I love you,” he responded, then placed his head beside John’s on the pillow, their limbs knotting together.

Paul fell asleep next to him like that – fully dressed, kissed raw, face squished against John’s neck, John’s arm around Paul’s shoulder.

At some point, John lit a cigarette, turned off the lights, watched the smoke waltz gently around Paul’s head, encompassing them both; listened to the sound of Paul breathing, a quiet snore echoing between them. He welcomed the smell of winter outside their window, the wind bitter and crisp – remembered Paul McCartney, young and boisterous and _in love_ looking at him like he held the key to the universe, riding his bike aimlessly around Liverpool in the middle of winter, kissing a boy in his back garden when his auntie wasn’t home, hopeful and excited and alive.

And John remembered falling, endlessly, gliding through the last six years like there was no ground beneath him – and now, it was the same; he was still falling, but he basked in it, because Paul was falling, too.

And falling together – that would be okay, John decided. That, he could live with, and live with it, he would, for as long as time allowed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope this was okay - i'm having a load of trouble sleeping recently so both parts of this are the results of me being a general waste of of a potentially functioning member of society!!
> 
> please let me know what you thought, leave kudos, etcetc! it makes me so happy!
> 
> (my tumblr is distinguished-like.tumblr.com so definitely head on over there if you wanna say hey or interact or anything!!!)

**Author's Note:**

> this was super hard to write but i hope it turned out okay! pls let me know what you thought!!!


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